King of Men
by mnemosyne23
Summary: Movieverse. An explication of Aragorn's thoughts during his final scene with Boromir. Not slash.


King of Men  
By Mnemosyne  
  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own any LotR related characters or events. Those are the rightful property of the estate of JRR Tolkien, hereon to be referred to as "The Genius." All dialogue taken from the film "Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring" is the property of Peter Jackson, Phillipa Boyens and Fran Walsh, and all others involved in the making of the movie.  
  
Summary: Movieverse. An explication of Aragorn's thoughts during his final scene with Boromir. Not slash.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Notes: Viggo Mortensen and Sean Bean were magnificent in their respective roles as Aragorn and Boromir in the film version of "Fellowship," and the chemistry between the two characters was unmistakable. Their final scene together is, in my opinion, one of the most vivid, poignant moments in cinema history. It is a scene of abandon, and a scene of resolution, as one man relinquishes his dream and rests it on the shoulders of an uneasy hero. While I'm loathe to touch or change it in anyway - since in my mind, the movie, like the book, is pristine - I couldn't resist the urge. Were I a member of the fellowship, I would have succumbed to the thrall of the One Ring even before I'd set foot out of Rivendell, and would currently be penning my autobiography, "I Am the Other Gollum, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Sauron." LOL! Please note, this is my first LotR story, and it has been a long time since I've refreshed myself on the ins and outs of the book-verse. Please disregard any inaccuracies you may run across, and don't flame me, for my clothes are 50% polyester and would melt into my skin. ;) LOL!  
  
*********  
  
Pain.  
  
Such was the lot of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, as he stood in the rocky clearing beneath Amon Hen and struggled to breathe through a mouthful of blood. The stocky, headless corpse of the orc general was little comfort as the king of men leaned on his knees and tried to discern the extent of his wounds as he greedily sucked in air.  
  
It was almost an afterthought, but he remembered something; a clear, rich clarion from an ivory horn. Three mournful blasts, like the braying of a cornered wolf. The Horn of Gondor.  
  
Boromir.  
  
Looking up, he furrowed his brow. A familiar form, draped in rich fabrics soiled by travel and battle, was slumped amidst the forest debris. Three thick-shafted arrows feathered in black jutted crudely from his torso.   
  
"No," Aragorn panted, and lumbered towards his fallen comrade. His stiff motions smoothed out only as he reached the other man's side, and fell to his knees on the leaf strewn forest floor.  
  
"They took the little ones!" Boromir cried desperately, his body jerking with a mix of anguish and anxiety.   
  
"Lay still," Aragorn reproached gently, resting his hands on Boromir's body to hold him down.  
  
"Frodo," the man of Gondor gasped. "Where is Frodo?"  
  
Aragorn paused, suddenly wracked with self-doubt. Here was where a king would know what to say - would be sure enough in his decision that he could say it without hesitation. Yet he hesitated nonetheless.  
  
He was no king.  
  
"I let Frodo go," he murmured, forcing himself to meet the other man's tortured gaze before looking away.  
  
"Then you did what I could not," Boromir choked out, and any relief Aragorn might have felt for his benefaction was cut short by the obvious pain in the man's voice. "I tried to take the Ring from him."  
  
A pang pierced Aragorn's heart, as real as any knife point. He could see in Boromir's eyes the hunger that his own soul had felt; was still feeling, if he let himself be truthful. Hunger for the Ring, and the power it conferred; hunger so deep and insidious, it gnawed at his belly even now, reminding him of the careless, weak actions of his ancestors. "The ring is beyond our reach now," he said quietly, fully aware of the vulnerability in his own voice. Perhaps he could lay Boromir's hunger and guilt to rest, if he showed the other man how those same agonies afflicted his own heart.  
  
But for nought. "Forgive me," Boromir panted, voice sad and retiring. "I did not see. I have failed you all."  
  
"No, Boromir," Aragorn protested. "You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." He knew the words were in vain, regardless of their truth; it was the nature of the Ring to sow the seeds of discontent in the hearts of men. Whether this despondency showcased itself in the battles of a purposeless war, or in the sad, useless demise of a good man brought low, the Ring did not care. Its perfect shape and golden hue betrayed a deceptively cunning heart of evil.   
  
The arrows were thick. They seemed like black, heavy branches as they stretched torturously from the trunk of Boromir's body. Aragorn could not forego a sympathetic wince as he moved his hands towards the first of the three, intent on practicing the battlefield healing he had too often had reason to exercise.  
  
The force and vehemence of Boromir's voice stopped him, however. "Leave it!" the wounded man cried breathlessly, grabbing Aragorn's wrist. Then, quieter, "It is over."   
  
Aragorn looked up, and saw the pain and hopelessness on Boromir's face as the other man continued. "The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness. And my city to ruin!"   
  
Here, the fallen man of Gondor reached up and gripped Aragorn's shoulder in so tight a fist that the king of Men could almost believe he would live. But the desperate fire in Boromir's eyes belied such thoughts - they were the eyes of a man who knew he would not live to see his dreams fulfilled.   
  
Here again, a king would know what to say. A king would utter words of reassurance, ringing with a clarity of truth, which would send his warrior's soul off to the afterlife with a joyous heart. But think as he may, Aragorn could discern no words that would comfort Boromir's wounded spirit.   
  
He was no king.  
  
He felt the words take shape, and knew that where his mind had failed him, his heart had not. "I do not know what strength is in my blood," he professed, "but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall." He paused a moment, then continued firmly, disregarding the tremor in his voice, "Nor our people fail."  
  
"Our people," the dying man breathed, as though it were a prayer. "Our people…"   
  
The look of fierce joy that suffused Boromir's face then was painful for Aragorn to witness. Sucking in harsh, fluid-choked breaths, the steward's son let his arm fall to the wayside, clutching blindly for the sword he knew was close at hand. Carefully, almost gently, Aragorn lifted the hilt of the blade and pressed it into Boromir's gloved hand, and watched as his countryman pulled it up tight against his chest, holding it near to his heart, as a small child would a favorite keepsake, or a lover the perfumed letter of his beloved.   
  
Aragorn sensed more than heard the arrival of the others. Legolas approached on silent, feline feet, but stopped some distance away, as if sensing that intrusion on this moment would be against the will of nature. Aragorn could feel the eyes of the ageless elf, watching the death scene with the tender curiosity of an immortal. Not for the first time, the vagabond king wondered how the elves understood death, if indeed they understood it at all. They were eternal, unless eternity chose to strike them down. What could they know of the pain of Men at the loss of a comrade; a brother in arms? Or perhaps they knew better than men what death truly entailed. For they had seen more than the simple passing of a soul from one plain to the next - they had witnessed the death of aeons.  
  
It did not matter. The pain of Legolas, and Gimli, when he too arrived, was a matter to be dealt with later. Aragorn could sense time flowing around him; the loud rush of minutes racing past his ears. Boromir would be lost to them soon, and with his death, the demons that had long nested in Aragorn's soul - demons of doubt and indecision - would awaken, drawn to the surface by the fresh smell of sorrow and slain kinsman. It was always in these moments, when he stood amongst the moaning bodies of near-dead men, that Aragorn yearned to be other than who he was. A pauper, a thief, an elf, an orc. Anything but who and what he was by birthright: king of Men; guardian of their fate.  
  
He was no king.  
  
Boromir's voice jarred him from his fatalistic introspection. "I would have followed you, my brother," the dying man proclaimed, using the last of his strength to keep the eye contact between them. "My captain." A weak, but near-jubilant smile suffused his milk-pale face. "My king."  
  
//Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.//  
  
Aragorn could feel tears prick his eyes as the brave man before him died quietly, his eyes going vacant, like empty windows.   
  
Looking down, Aragorn touched one knuckle to his own forehead, then his lips, in a symbolic gesture of farewell. Then, looking up, he did something very unkingly. He reached out and cupped the fallen warrior's face tenderly. After a moment, he leaned forward, blue eyes fierce with determination and grief. "Be at peace… son of Gondor," he whispered, so softly it seemed as though he swallowed the words.  
  
Boromir lay silent, already beyond the veil. Aragorn could only hope the warrior had heard him.  
  
Leaning further forward, the king laid a tender kiss on Boromir's forehead; still warm, and touched with the salt of sweat and the grime of forest warfare. He heard Gimli arrive, treading on sturdy dwarfish feet, but did not turn around. This was not a moment for ancient races; as Gimli had mourned in Moria, Aragorn would mourn in the world of Men.  
  
Sitting back slowly, he did not let his eyes linger on Boromir's body. Instead, he looked up, gazing far into the forest, where the trees became fuzzy through a mix of tears and distance. The Ring was gone now, on a rocky path to Mordor, in the hands of a terrified bearer. Aragorn could only wish him well. And now Boromir - the only other Man on this quest - had left him. He had no path to follow, save the one that led him to a throne.  
  
He was no king. But now, he had need to become one.  
  
//First Gandalf, and now Boromir,// he thought, a sad, accepting smile touching his lips. //How many more will you take, Sauron, Great Deceiver, before I kill you in the fires of your own pitiless mountain? I tell you now, Lord of Decay, Boromir is the last you will have so easily. For each after this, you will need tenfold as many vermin as you set upon us today. Make you ready. I am king.//  
  
He did not even notice the tear as it tracked down his cheek to disappear again, as though it had never existed at all.  
  
  
The End  
  
A/N: There it is. My first - and possibly only - LotR fic. Just a few last notes. I know that Saruman, not Sauron, is technically the one who sent the Uruk Hai against Aragorn and the others in search of the ring. But since Saruman is working at the behest of Sauron, you could say that Sauron was just as responsible for the Uruk Hai as Saruman. Also, I realize that Aragorn didn't decide at the end of "Fellowship" to become king, and that it took him MUCH longer than that. Forgive me, please; poetic license decided to get into the driver's seat and wouldn't give me the keys to the Jag. ;) LOL! 


End file.
